In Shining Armor
by AliWC
Summary: There's Neal, a pack of blood-thirsty villains and no way out ... help?  Rated T for descriptions of violence and for language. One-shot. Gen.


**A/N:** Previously posted on Ao3 and Collarkink. A One-shot for fun. Not my show.

**Beta'd **by the wonderful **Mam711. ** All Mistakes are mine.

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><p><span>In Shining Armor<span>

In the past, Neal had known he could talk his way out of any situation. Most people—most criminals, that is—had blinders that ensured all they saw and wanted was that direct path to their goal; it made it easy for Neal to work on the side without arousing suspicion. And if anybody had ever thought to look at him twice with anything other than total confidence in the thief's ability, then Neal could simply deflect, redirect, charm or plain lie until their attention shifted off him.

Unfortunately, there was something about his role as a criminal/confidential informant that ripped the blinders clean off the criminal's face. Fortunately, his arrangement with the FBI wasn't common knowledge yet, but there was always a chance that the crooks he was trying to entrap knew that detrimental fact about him.

Like now. They looked like bloodhounds. Snarling and slobbering like the great dumb lackeys they were. Neal was surrounded. He once might have tried to turn them on their boss, and he would have succeeded too; his silver tongue was more than enough to work over guys like these, but they knew ... they knew him to be a 'traitor' to his kind. No way would they turn on their boss based on the word of an FBI pet on a leash.

Neal looked around again, but he knew he was on his own. They were in a warehouse district. Currently they were standing outside on the rolling concreted pavement that stretched for miles. In the distance, Neal could see the reflections of the bright warm sun dancing on the ripples of the river that flowed by. He felt a sour taste in his mouth as he thought that these guys might actually go with the cliché and give him a watery burial.

It seemed wrong somehow, that he should be torn to shreds in this undignified way by a bunch of thugs who considered porn magazines to be books. It was wrong that his precious blood would soon be splattered on the burning concrete where he stood and the sun would go on shining. It was wrong that as the night fell, he would eventually be discovered, lifeless, and they would zip him up in a black bag, forever covering the great sight of the stars up above. If they found him at all, that is….

Neal looked around again, eyes wide, waiting, watching, observing each face, looking for a flicker of doubt he could use, for a slight flash of sympathy he could call on to save him, but there was nothing. These men were hungry for blood and gore, for a killing. He'd wasted all their hard work, after all; after this they would have to move, now that they knew the Feds were onto them.

There was only one thing holding them back from ripping him limb from limb right now: their boss hadn't given the signal yet. Their boss was enjoying having the great Neal Caffrey cornered, enjoying seeing his fear and helplessness. Enjoying Neal's loss of power, loving that the great legendary thief knew his luck had run out.

"Any last words, Caffrey?" The Bossman teased, wanting to hear some begging but doubting the semi-reformed thief would give him the pleasure. He loved that this man was reduced to being at his mercy.

But Caffrey only glared defiantly back at him.

The Boss could respect that, so he smiled nastily and raised his hand, ready to flick his fingers, to give the signal, to stand back and watch the massacre.

Neal's world shrank and expanded all at once. The noises of the outside world echoed as time distorted. He saw everything in slow motion, the slightest movement, the slightest twitch in expressions and in body movements took an age, and yet it all happened within microseconds. Somewhere in his dream state of waiting for the claws to sink into his flesh, of waiting for the blows to rain down on him, or waiting to be knocked to the ground, and of waiting to be kicked until oblivion claimed him, or waiting for that last killing blow to deliver him from his agony … Neal heard racing hooves.

Neal blinked as the real world crashed in on him again. Reality had his heart racing, and the world was uncomfortably large again. He was confused. The thugs were there, but then suddenly the large men were being thrown aside like little more than rag dolls, with others backing away. Most wore killer expressions, the fear driving them to madness.

Numbly, Neal looked up and watched in awe as on either side of him, he saw two riders bearing down on him on great beautiful stallions. On his right, a massive onyx-black horse reared, with its rider—her black hair flying in the wind—sitting atop, with a calm steely-eyed expression as she whipped out a gun and pointed it in a great arc at any who dared look her way. On Neal's left, a pearly-white horse, its mane flying behind, was still scattering Neal's would-be killers, while on high, the rider grinned, flashing dangerous challenges to those who might dare take him on.

Peter and Diana worked in tandem, guns pointed outward on their right as they moved to circle Neal who was on their left. Neal stood, wide-eyed, catching glimpses of men staggering to their feet, forlornly re-forming the circle around the three of them. He couldn't see much because the horses were still moving in a protective circle around him.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, Neal noticed how much Peter and Diana were in their element; horse riding either came naturally to them, or they'd grown up riding horses. He was stuck in a surreal moment but he knew—wherever he was, as he stood there in shock—that he was safe, despite the regrouping of the criminals around them.

Then even Neal, numb and lost, could hear the sirens. Suddenly the predators were the prey; they scattered once more but soon found themselves cornered as cars and agents poured in, surrounding them. Pandemonium erupted as it became every man for himself. The threatening horses and their irate riders were forgotten; the criminals had bigger things on their minds. The horses were jostled as the criminals fled every which way, pressing back on them. Peter reached down, and with Diana's helping hand, found Neal's arm, before pulling him up.

Neal found himself—in a child-like, fear-fueled moment—pressing himself in against Peter's back, clutching the agent's waist, hanging on for dear life. But now that Neal was safely on the horse behind Peter, the two agents were able to, with madly glinting, delighted eyes, push out from the crowd, knocking aside the men again, taking great delight in disarming a few bastards as they went.

Then Peter and Diana were racing each other, leaving behind the chaos, knowing that under Jones' direction, the scum would be cleaned up and taken in for processing within twenty minutes. They slowed as they approached the edge of the river, and the horses, well-deserving, were allowed to slow to an ambling pace, moving along the edge where the concrete met the banks of the river, looking for patches of grass that managed to grow in the cracks.

Peter turned slightly to look at Neal who was forced to loosen his hold. Peter might have said something to reassure Neal, who couldn't help it as his body was racked with shakes from shock, adrenaline and mostly relief. Relief that the dancing light on the water was going to remain undisturbed. But Peter seemed to sense that Neal would be fine, that the CI already knew the words of comfort and without prompt was reveling in his safety. He was fine. Diana and Peter had saved him … on horses?

Neal looked up into Peter's eyes then across at Diana who was watching him from where she sat, with a satisfied smile. He was fine. He was speechless. He loved these guys. They'd saved him. But horses?

Neal let his head fall onto Peter's back, exhausted. The questions could wait.


End file.
